The Art of Cliffhanging
by Peace Like a River
Summary: Drax, plus Gamora, plus a thousand-foot drop. Without the other Guardians there to act as a buffer, Gamora idly wonders what will kill her first: the cliff, the alien swarm, or the company of her exasperating, metaphorically-challenged teammate. Team-fic. No pairings, unless you squint.
1. The Run

**The Art of Cliffhanging**

**Chapter 1: The Run**

_**Disclaimer:**_

**I own absolutely nothing—I have no more claim to the Guardians of the Galaxy universe than a bird has claim to the sky. ****I can't even claim the accompanying thumbnail: credit for that goes to _Kurunya_, from deviantart.**

**So, this started off as a drabble about a mission gone wrong. But, like drabbles sometimes do, it insisted on growing from a hundred words, to two hundred, to... well, you get the idea. Enjoy!**

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><p>Gamora was going to kill him.<p>

Well, assuming he managed to beam them off of this godforsaken rock in time. _Then_ she was going to kill him.

Gritting her teeth against the growing ache in her side, she pushes herself to keep running. Rocks shift and slide underfoot, and the terrain grows steeper, making it more and more difficult to press on.

"Peter!" she shouts, putting her hand to her ear. "Peter, we're in trouble, do you copy?"

The comm-unit crackles to life. _"Gamora, I copy. What's wrong?"_

"Your _intel_ was wrong," she bites out. "You said this was an abandoned planet. You said this was a simple job, and I believed you, or I would've never agreed to divide up the team for separate missions!"

_"Whoa, back up,"_ Peter says._ "What do you mean, it's not an abandoned planet... Is someone else after the relic? Who is it, some junker? Aw hell, tell me it's not Yondu." _Gamora hears a scrabbling noise in the background—probably Rocket, climbing up on the co-pilot chair beside Peter.

"Actually, I would settle for Yondu right about now," she says wryly. "But no such luck. Instead, we're up against mindless insectoids of death." She throws a glance over her shoulder, half-expecting to see giant mandibles snapping at her heels. "This place is a _Brood_ colony," she snaps. "And that so-called 'relic'? That was the egg of their next Queen."

_"Well, shit." _Rocket's voice.

"My sentiments exactly."

_"Oh, God." _Peter again, sounding shaken. _"I didn't know. Are you okay? I don't hear Drax... Is he with you?"_

"I'm fine. So is he." She glances at her teammate, who is keeping pace beside her. "His comm-link is broken: we had a run-in with a few sentries." Well, more like a few _dozen_ sentries, but really, who was keeping count?

"I would not describe our predicament as a run-in," Drax puts in, climbing over a boulder. "More accurately, it was a run _out_. Out of the egg chamber, as quickly as possible."

Gamora rolls her eyes to the side. In the background, Rocket tries to stifle a laugh, and fails.

_"Okay, well, keep running,"_ Peter says. She can practically hear him glaring at Rocket.

_"Quill's right for once,"_ the mechanic butts in, sounding unfazed. _"The Brood may be a bunch of scary mofos, but most of 'em are slow-moving: just steer clear of the winged ones, and book it to the Micelli, and you should be okay."_

"'Book it'?" Drax mutters. "I don't see how educational tomes will help."

Gamora sighs. "He means 'run like hell to the ship'. Only we can't. We tried, but she was already overrun with the Brood. You'll have to come and pick us up in the _Milano._"

_"Shit,"_ Peter says. In the background, Rocket's reaction is even more colorful. _"We're changing course now, but we literally _just_ left Yormot,"_ Peter explains._ "It'll be twenty, thirty minutes at least... Can you hold out that long?"_

Gamora looks to Drax.

He nods. "We can if we have to."

"We will keep running," she relays to her teammates. "If we can make it to higher ground, maybe we can find a defensible point."

_"We'll get you out of this," _Peter says firmly._ "I promise."_

_"I am Groot."_

_"Yeah, what he said. Hang in there, you two."_ A pause._ "You know, now that the Micelli is probably getting dismantled by the Brood as we speak, I'm guessing she's probably the first _and_ last spacecraft that Nova will ever loan out to us, huh?"_

_"Not important right now!"_

Gamora shakes her head, about to comment, when—

"Get down!"

Drax slams into her, sending them both to the ground. Winded and disoriented from the impact, she looks up in time to see a Brood-scout rush overhead, barely missing them. The scout is full-grown and winged, with its mandibles fully extended: one second later, and it would have impaled her.

Having missed its target, the scout turns sharply about, limbs skimming the ground. Wings whirring, jaws clicking, the creature circles back toward them. They scramble to their feet, trying to dodge out of its path.

They underestimate its speed.

The creature launches itself at Drax. Man and beast fly backward in a tangle of limbs, and Drax cries out in pain as the creature clamps down on his wrist, hard. He struggles to free himself, but the mandibles refuse to give.

"No!" Gamora shouts, running toward them. "Get off of him!" She can see the needle-like probe in its mouth, slick with venom, flicking toward the skin at his wrist.

With an enraged cry, Gamora draws her blade and launches herself into the air. She vaguely registers the frightened shouts of her teammates over the comm-link, but she purposefully tunes them out. The world around her retreats, disappearing past the edges of her awareness, until there is only the blade in her hand, the struggling form of her teammate, and the venomous needle... hovering, searching, flicking...

Gamora lands on top of the creature. Using her full weight, she drives the blade into its compound eye.

The creature screams: a thick, high-pitched sound, like shards of metal scraping together. The beast shudders and stamps, and most importantly, its needle retreats. Hoping desperately to hit something vital, Gamora twists the blade in deeper... The creature screams again.

Then, instinctively and without warning, it takes to the air, unwilling passengers in tow.

After the initial shock of finding herself airborne, Gamora quickly finds her balance. "Hang on!" she shouts to Drax as the wind whips past them. Straddling the neck of the scout, she reaches for him with her free hand. He clutches her forearm gratefully.

"Any brilliant plans?" he shouts. His voice is as dry as ever, but Gamora can tell that he is in pain.

"Generally speaking, yes," she shouts, straining to be heard over the rushing air. Her stomach drops as the creature swoops haphazardly up and down. "We have to kill this thing."

Drax stares up at her incredulously. "_That_ is the entirety of your plan? I think that might be even worse than the 'twelve percent' atrocity that Quill came up with on Xandar."

"Not... helping..." Gamora grinds out.

_"Will you assholes just _listen_ to me?"_ Rocket's voice, angry and deliberate, over the comm-link. _"I've been trying to tell you how to kill that sucker. For the past. Two. Minutes."_

"Ah," Gamora grimaces.

"Oh," Drax says.

_"Gah,"_ Rocket sighs. _"If you'd been _listening_, you'd know that the best way to kill a Brood-scout is to skewer its brain. To do that, you either have to go through the mouth, or through the back of the head, right where the horn plate meets the rest of the exoskeleton. Even Drax's pathetic little excuses for daggers should be long enough to reach. Ya got that?"_

"I think I preferred it when you _weren't_ helping," Drax huffs.

Gamora rolls her eyes. "I am on it," she tells Rocket. She grips the handle of her blade, which is still firmly buried in the creature's eye. Fortunately, with the added weight of its passengers, the scout is flying fairly low to the ground: if she were to kill it now, the fall would be twenty or thirty feet at most—easily survivable. Taking a deep breath, Gamora rips the blade free.

Meanwhile, Rocket is still talking. _"Just be careful,"_ he advises. _"The Brood thrives in mountain terrain. Lots of sheer drops, pointy rocks at the bottom."_

The creature screams once more, swerving in its flight path. Gamora rights herself and readies her blade.

_"So you definitely wanna watch where you put 'er down,"_ Rocket is saying.

Gamora drives the blade home, sinking it deep into the vulnerable point at the back of the insectoid's head.

_"It would suck if you cut the power, and you happened to be flying over a—"_

"Cliff!" Drax shouts, gripping her hand.

_"Yeah, that,"_ Rocket says casually.

"No, _cliff!_"

"Oh, God." Gamora looks down, following his gaze, and sure enough, they are headed right for the edge of a chasm. Her heart all but stops. The creature is sputtering, dying, practically in free fall, but its forward momentum continues: for a horrible, terrifying moment, Gamora isn't sure whether they will make the landing... Her first instinct is to leap clear and let the creature fall where it may, but Drax is still caught in its jaws... She can't leave him... She _has_ to leave him... _She can't._

The scout hits the ground, just a few yards before the edge of the precipice. Man, woman, and creature slide forward together, sending up clouds of dust and gravel.

Gamora takes a deep breath, keeping an iron grip on Drax's hand. With her other hand, she grips her blade: gravity pulls it free as she slides down the creature's side. Angling the blade toward the ground, Gamora stabs downward as hard as she can, trying desperately to slow their forward momentum. But the blade finds only loose earth and gravel... nothing that catches, nothing that can slow them down... The creature clicks and keens, weakly scrabbling for purchase at the edge... Drax is still caught...

Finally, her blade catches on something firm. She jerks to an abrupt halt.

Something stretches and tears in her sword arm, and she screams: even with her bio-mods, the strain on her body is too much. Still, she refuses to let go of Drax.

Fortunately for them, the insectoid is on its last leg of life. As they jerk to a halt, the scout finally falls free, too weak to support its own weight. Drax cries out in pain, and Gamora grimaces sympathetically, knowing that his wrist has probably snapped.

She listens breathlessly to the Brood-scout as it falls. The harsh clicking and screaming quiets to a whine, then dies out entirely.

Then there is only the sound of the wind through the gorge, and the heavy breathing of her and her teammate.

Trying to collect herself, she lets her head fall back against the ground. She is lying flat on her back, parallel to the cliff edge. Her right arm and shoulder hang off the edge, straining to hold Drax in place, while her sword arm is still gripping her blade, keeping them from falling. She digs her heels into the ground, searching for additional purchase, but comes up empty. So she lies still.

"That was incredibly stupid," Drax finally points out from below, adjusting his grip on her forearm. "You could have died."

Gamora laughs, because of _course_ that would be the first thing he would say. "You are welcome. And I am fine, thank you for asking." She rolls her eyes to the side. "What about you, princess?"

"Still not a princess," comes the obligatory grumble. Then, after a pause—"I would pull myself up, but my wrist is broken."

"I was afraid of that," she says. "I don't suppose there are any convenient ledges down there, that you could jump to."

She feels his weight shift as he takes stock of their surroundings.

"It would seem our luck stops here," he says. "We are on an outcropping."

Her heart starts to sink.

"I cannot see any ledges or hand-grips," he continues. "Only a straight fall."

"All right," she grits her teeth and adjusts her grip. "Then I'll have to try to pull you up."

"You are going to try _what?_"

"Stop talking, I have to concentrate."

"I do not understand how _concentration_ will change anything." He sounds incredulous. "I am nearly four thousand grets, and you weigh half that—maybe not even half that. Bio-mods or no bio-mods, it's not possible."

"Stop talking," she grinds out. "And don't tell me what's... _possible._" On the word 'possible', she rolls towards her dagger arm, flexing her bicep and engaging her core muscles...

And she accomplishes nothing, other than straining her already taxed shoulder. She gasps, rolling back into place. "Huh," she says. "I honestly thought that would work."

He snorts. "And you claim that _I_ have an over-inflated view of my physical capabilities."

"Stop talking," she says again, aware that she is starting to sound like a broken record. "I'm trying again." She tunes out his protests as she tries again to pull him to safety. And again. And again.

Finally, she admits defeat. Exhausted, she lies back against the dust, doing her best to keep her fists clenched as her arms start to cramp.

"Well, team," she says, "any time you would like to contribute an idea, I would love to hear it."

Only silence.

"Peter? Rocket? Groot?"

Still nothing.

"This is Gamora to the _Milano_, can anybody copy?"

Drax shifts his weight. "Your earpiece is gone, isn't it?"

She realizes that he is right. Turning her head to scan the area, she sees the fallen earpiece—a silver, pea-sized device, glinting in the sun. It's only a few feet away. Then again, it might as well be a hundred parsecs away, for all the good it's doing them.

Because now, not only are they stuck at the edge of a cliff, on a planet swarming with murderous insectoids, but all communications with their team have been cut off.

She releases a shaky breath. "It's gone. We're on our own."

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><p><strong><em>Author's note:<em>**

**Dun dun _dun!_**

**So. I should really, ****_really_**** write another chapter of my Rocket origin story. And I will! (Eventually.) I don't even have writer's block: on the contrary, I know exactly what to write. It's more like a 'distraction block', whereby my brain refuses to work on 'I Didn't Ask to Get Made' until all the other plot bunnies running around in my head have been sated. Please bear with me!**

**And as always, thanks for reading and reviewing!**


	2. The Edge

**The Art of Cliffhanging**

**Chapter 2: The Edge**

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><p>"I am confused."<p>

"Of _course_ you are..."

"When you say you will dismember Quill if we make it out alive..."

She sighs.

"...you are speaking seriously?" Drax sounds amused. Or at least, as amused as someone _can_ sound when suspended over a cliff edge by a rapidly fatiguing teammate.

"Oh, yes. As surely as I live and breathe," Gamora confirms tiredly, staring up at the sky. "But, for your benefit, that roughly translates to banning him from intel and making him sleep on the couch for the next few days."

Drax snorts. "I thought as much." She cannot see his face from her vantage point, but she can hear the smile in his voice. "You have gone soft."

She smirks. "Not as soft as you, princess."

"Shrew."

"Pixie."

"Nag."

"Infant."

"Harpy."

"...Duchess."

"Duchess?" he scoffs, putting an end to their familiar back-and-forth. "That is nothing more than an ill-disguised repeat of the word 'princess'. I win."

"Fine," she says. "I concede this round."

They fall silent for a while, conserving their strength. Gamora trembles from exhaustion: she is stretched and strained to her limits, and every joint in her body seems to hang together by a thread. The pain in her sword arm is now a sharp throb, and she doesn't even want to _think_ about the damage to her shoulder... Every once in a while, one of the cybernetic components clicks and whirs, as if trying to snap back into place, but to no avail. Thus far, the only _not_-horrible part of this day was the fact that the Brood had not yet arrived to rip them limb from limb.

"We may have lost them," she shivers, thinking of snapping jaws and venomous needles. "Or they may have given up the chase."

"That is not how the Brood functions," Drax points out wearily. "They do not give up chase until their attackers are dead. Perhaps not even then."

Gamora grits her teeth. "I know, but I am trying to think of an outcome in which we _won't_ get ripped apart by an insect horde."

A long pause. "I have already thought of one, Gamora."

That immediately throws up a warning flag, because he rarely, if ever, calls her by name. She is 'harpy' or 'shrew' or 'banshee', while he is 'princess' or 'pixie' or 'drama queen': it was a game between them. An incredibly sexist game, come to think of it—she should probably address that, if and when they got out alive... In the meantime, she would simply setting for getting out alive.

"If you have a plan, I am all ears," she says tentatively. "But please don't point out how that would be biologically implausible—I am not in the mood."

"Your concerns are unfounded," he says, sounding amused. "We have discussed that expression before, remember? Contrary to popular belief, I _am_ capable of learning."

"That's right... I remember," she smiles, thinking of late nights, coffee-stained mission reports, and scrawled edits in blue crayon. "Sorry, but sometimes I forget that you're not actually an idiot."

"Mmm," he hums noncommittally. "Then we are even, because sometimes I forget you are not actually a whore."

She snorts. "And we are back to the 'whore' thing. Just when I think we're finally making some progress."

"We were— _are_," he corrects, not quite able to cover his slip in tenses. "But in all seriousness, Gamora... please listen. We may not have much time." He sounds strangely quiet and calm—something in his change of tone makes her nervous.

"There are only a few possible outcomes to our predicament," he tells her. "Outcome one: You pull me to safety. But we have already attempted that. Outcome two—"

"What, no comments about my useless bio-mods, or my sticks for arms?" she says, trying to sidetrack him, because she has a sneaking suspicion where this is going and would rather not find out for sure...

"Outcome two," he says again—and the fact that he chooses not to question the 'sticks for arms' metaphor makes her really and truly alarmed—"We stay here. In five minutes, _if_ we are fortunate, the Brood catches up to us. We both die."

"How very cheery of you."

"Outcome three—"

"Outcome three," she says firmly, "you leave the strategizing to the trained warrior-assassin. Our team will come for us. Until then, you stop talking and hold on. You can thank me later, by covering my kitchen duty for the rest of the month."

He laughs. "That is wishful thinking. The _Milano_ is a capable vessel, but she cannot reach us before the Brood. Furthermore, I would never consent to a month of kitchen duty: a week would be more than enough to show my gratitude."

She snorts. "One week would be barely worth my effort," she fires back automatically, "so in that case, I should just drop you here and now."

Drax mutters something unintelligible.

"What was that?" she asks, half-knowing and dreading the answer.

"I said, that _is_ the fourth outcome," he repeats quietly. "You drop me here and now." He sounds perfectly serious, and there is no fear in his voice, only a quiet resignation that chills her to the bone. "It is the only decision that makes sense," he explains. "We let go. You escape before the Brood arrives. You live."

"_No,_" she grinds out. "Fuck that. Fuck outcome four, and fuck you. I am _not_ going to drop you, princess, so don't you _dare_ give up on me now."

A beat of silence. "I don't..." He sounds surprised. "I don't believe that I have ever heard you curse before."

She laughs in disbelief. "_That's_ the only thing you took away from what I said? The profanity?"

"No, I heard the non-profanity as well, but I decided it was irrelevant."

"Irrelevant?" she hisses. "You stubborn, infuriating... _I _decide what is relevant, and what is not. Because _I_ am single-handedly keeping you from plunging to your doom."

"That is not true," he says, in that calm, steady voice. "I am keeping myself up, too."

She feels the pressure on her forearm ease slightly. _Oh God. _She hadn't realized how much of the work he was doing in holding himself up, until he'd started to let go... _Oh God, he'd actually started to let go... _Her eyes widen, her breath catches in her throat, and she thinks she might be panicking. With a cry of effort, she adjusts her grip, digging her fingers into his forearm.

"Gamora, I am sorry."

"Drax," she seethes. _Dammit. _Now she was using _his_ name... "I swear to God, don't you _dare_ let go, or I will..." She trails off, at a loss for how to threaten him.

"You will what?" He almost sounds amused. "You will drop me?"

"...That wasn't funny."

"It was a _little_ funny."

"Stop. Just stop this." _And stop saying my name: it sounds too much like a 'goodbye'..._ "Dropping you isn't even an option."

"It is the _only_ option," he tells her gently. "I have known what to do, ever since your first attempt to pull me up. I stalled because I doubted you would accept my decision. But now we have no choice: we are running out of time."

"You are right about one thing," she says darkly, hating that he sounds so level-headed, so rational. "I do _not_ accept your decision. If you go through with this, I will never forgive you, and I will never forgive myself. I can't... I can't have your blood on my hands." _There is already so much of it..._

"My blood would not be on your hands," he points out matter-of-factly. "This drop is much too high. You would not even see my blood, let alone be hit by it—"

She makes a strangled noise that lands somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "You are, without a doubt, the biggest fucking idiot in the galaxy..."

"—And even _figuratively_ speaking," he continues, speaking over her, "your hands would be clean. This is not your decision—it is mine. You are not to blame, Gamora. You have done everything you could."

She blinks. Sniffs. Replays his words in her mind. "Did you just... successfully interpret a figure of speech?"

"Yes, I think so." He sounds equally surprised. "But... was that the only thing you took away from what I said?" She can hear the smile in his voice as he baits her.

She follows through with the exchange, smiling bitterly, despite herself. "No, I heard the rest of it, as well. But I decided it was irrelevant," she says. "Because you are _not_ going to die."

"Relevant or not, I meant every word. I will meet my end gladly, knowing that you are safe." He loosens his grip. Immediately her stomach plummets, as if _she_ is the one about to fall...

"Just wait, wait!" she pleads, panicking. Her voice is hoarse as she forces it past the growing lump in her throat. "We have time—we'll find a way out of this! At least give me until the Brood comes... you have to give me that. Maybe you're wrong, and they won't come. Maybe Peter will pull through."

He laughs bitterly. "Maybe my wife and daughter are still alive somewhere. Maybe your family is with them."

"Fuck you." Her vision blurs, and she blinks angrily to clear it. "Just do this. If not for yourself, then for me."

He sighs.

"Drax, _please._"

He tightens his grip on her forearm. She nearly sobs in relief.

"Until the Brood comes," he agrees.

They fall silent again. Trying to collect herself, Gamora focuses on breathing in and out. She has bought them time, but she is still at a loss: her mind is racing through the outcomes that Drax described, and unfortunately, his reasoning is sound. The chances of a successful rescue are slim at best. The _Milano_ is over half a parsec away, and with the route through hyperspace effectively barricaded by an asteroid field, their allies will be hard pressed to reach the Brood colony within the hour, let alone within the next few minutes. They are short on options and short on time. Still, she refuses to let go.

"I am sorry," Drax says suddenly.

"_What?_" She almost panics, thinking that he plans to go back on his word.

"No, I am referring to my previous blunder," he clarifies hurriedly. "I mocked the memory of your family. That was wrong of me."

Her eyes grow hard. "It would not be the first time their memory has been mocked to my face," she replies, voice carefully cleared of emotion. "I grew used to it, under Thanos. Mock them all you want: it means nothing to me."

He makes a frustrated sound. "Why do you _do_ that?"

"Do what?"

"Dismiss your pain," he says. "You speak as if you are so hardened by your past, so numb, that you are beyond pain. But you are not. I can hear it in your voice."

"Oh, so _now_ you suddenly care about my pain?" she lashes out. "I would never have known, based on how you belittle and insult me at every turn."

A beat of silence, as he considers her words. "You are right," he finally says. "I did belittle you, and I am sorry. I think I did it because... things were easier that way."

"Easier?" she scoffs. "Easier than what?"

He takes a deep breath. "Easier than being constantly reminded of _her._ Of Hovat."

Taken by surprise, she turns her head toward him, waiting for him to elaborate.

"You remind me of her," he says simply. "She was by far the most stubborn, exasperating woman I had ever met. And like you, she was fearless. Honorable. Strong."

Her eyes widen. "Is that truly how you see me?"

"Yes," he answers, "and I did not _want_ to see you that way. It was easier to dismiss you. To call you weak, or call you a whore, until I started to believe it. I thought perhaps, if I could look _past_ you... then I would not have to dwell on my memories."

"I never knew," she says, not knowing what else to say.

"Now you do."

They lapse into silence. Finally, she breaks it.

"I envy you, you know," she admits. "You are able to speak so freely about your family, while I cannot do the same for mine." Even now, she finds herself unable to speak their names. Unable to acknowledge them in the way that they deserve.

Drax waits for her to continue.

"Ever since Thanos took me," she explains, "I have been taught to keep my pain hidden. I was not allowed to act out, or to weep, or to let myself remember that I had ever been anything other than a weapon. I had to pretend as if I had known no other life than the one before Thanos. So I... I never let my pain out, and never let it heal. Then I met you, and I saw how openly you grieved your family. I saw how you let your pain drive you—and it angered me. Because _I_ was never allowed that luxury. So I said cruel things. We all did. And that was wrong of me... I should have been more sympathetic to your loss. I know, all too well, what it feels like."

He listens quietly as her words pour out. "Gamora, promise me something," he says when she is finished.

"Anything."

"When... after I..." He searches for the right words. Or more likely, he knows exactly what the right words are, and is tiptoeing around them for her sake. _When I am gone..._ "When you are back on the _Milano_," he finally says, "do not bury your pain again. You said that you would be proud to die among your friends. But you must not be ashamed to live among them, either: to turn to them for comfort and help. It would not be an admission of weakness—it would only be an admission of your trust."

Her eyes water again, and she swallows. "You know," she says, after gathering herself, "I feel like we are finally speaking for the first time."

"I feel the same. Although I wish it had been under better circumstances."

"As do I."

She pauses, frowning. "I would squeeze your hand—I thought it might be a pleasant gesture of camaraderie—but I think the muscles in my arm have become permanently atrophied."

"Consider the gesture given." He laughs. "But I would not have been able to feel it. My own arm has been numb for minutes."

She laughs.

He falls silent for a moment, and she feels his weight shift, as if he is straining towards something. "Do you hear that?" he asks her.

"Hear what?"

He shushes her. "Just listen. In the east."

She closes her eyes and concentrates. There is the wind. There is the sound of their breathing, strained from prolonged exertion. And then...

She feels it before she hears it. Like the barest tremor in the earth, or the beginnings of an avalanche. Then, as it gets louder... Her eyes widen in recognition. Not an earthquake: A _stampede._

"The Brood," she whispers, eyes wide. "They are coming."

"Then we are out of time." He takes a deep breath and releases it slowly—it dawns on her that he is preparing himself...

"Drax, don't do this. Please, we'll think of something..." She begins to plead with him, words pouring out clumsily as panic takes over. She wants to fight, to run, to lose herself in pure instinct as she tears through a line of foes. But this is not a problem that can be solved by the sword—this is not a problem that can be solved, at all—she is completely and utterly powerless and everything is happening so fast and _oh God, he's really going to let go..._

"You once told me," he is saying, "that you doubted the existence of an afterlife."

"Please..." She tastes salt, and realizes she is crying...

"But if there _is_ one—"

"Please, you can't..."

"—then I think I will miss you."

Arms trembling, heart pounding, she curses him in her native tongue... All the while, the tremor grows, as the Brood draws nearer...

He laughs at her, because of _course_ he does... The tremor swells to a roar... For a moment, Drax tightens his grip, and she can feel their pulses racing together, wild and fast and frightened—his only sign of fear.

"Run, my friend," he says. "Run, you foul-mouthed harpy, and fight on."

He lets go.

"_No!_" she screams, fighting to hold on, but losing her grip, losing _him_... _Please no no... _

Her hand closes on air.

He is gone.

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><p><strong><em>Author's note:<em>**

**So, yeah... that went a little dark at the end. I should probably be honest and disclose that I don't yet know how the rest of this story will play out. This may end up being a death fic, or it may not, but if it ****_does_**** end up being a death fic, then consider this a warning. Gamora and company would have a _lot_ to deal with, in the aftermath. Hmm. What to do.**

**If you would like him to live, throw cookies. If you would rather read a death fic, throw... I don't know, rocks or something.**

**As always, thanks for reading and reviewing!**


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